


When Peace Begins

by Biqui



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cell Games, F/M, Family Feels, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 21:50:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10500153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Biqui/pseuds/Biqui
Summary: Sticking as close to canon as possible, this one-shot pulls back the curtain on what the illustrious Bulma Briefs was up to immediately before, during, and after the Cell Games. What was her relationship with Vegeta like at the time? Why was she at Roshi's place during the battle? What did she think of her son from the future? How did she take the news about Goku's death? Her son's death? Read on for my take on it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I've rated this T, but be warned that you'll find "pussy," "superhuman sex god," (do I have your attention yet? ;) lol) and a smattering of expletives scattered throughout this fic. Also, there's a small section where I quote directly from the Funimation dub of DBZ, in my attempt to remain as canon-compliant as possible. I own nothing.

Bulma inhales deeply and slowly lets her breath escape into the bathroom’s humid air as she drapes the large towel over her shoulders to catch the last water droplets racing down her back. Although the hot shower had managed to ease the tension in her muscles, the breathing exercise did pathetically little to calm her mind.

 

Standing in the doorway to her darkened bedroom, she chooses to forego stimulating her eyes with artificial light in favor of letting them adjust to her moonlit surroundings. It doesn’t take long for her to be able to make her way through the dim space toward her closet, nimbly avoiding the various bric-a-brac littered across her carpet.

 

She perks up when she sees an unopened box of her favorite brand of cigarettes perched precariously on the edge of her TV stand, but as she reaches for the small packet, she pauses, remembering that she shouldn’t be smoking while Trunks is still on the tit.

 

_Damn. I need to get this kid on solids, stat._

 

Annoyed, Bulma stomps the last few steps into her closet, repeating the mantra that was getting her through motherhood: _I love my little hybrid, I love my little hybrid_. She slips into her undies and most comfortable nursing bra, and, with decidedly less stomping -- _lest I step on an unseen Hoi-Poi capsule, those sneaky fuckers_ \-- makes her way to her bed, sliding between the cool sheets.

 

She checks the baby monitor on her modified watch -- _all appears to be well in Trunksville_ \-- and all that remains is to set her alarm. Her breath hitches in her throat as she recalls the event she needs to adjust her wake-up time for.

 

_Goku’s memorial service…_

 

She presses her hands to her eyes, taking a few shaky breaths to compose herself. She counts slowly to ten, and, with one final sniff and a quick shake of her head, uncovers her eyes and sets the appropriate time on her watch.

 

The Capsule Corp heiress slowly nestles herself into a comfortable spot amongst her pillows and stares at her ceiling with unseeing eyes. She reflects on the events that had transpired over the course of the past few weeks, and in particular during the last 15 hours.

 

The day had proven to be an emotional rollercoaster, and one of the longest of her life.

 

~~~

 

In the last two weeks leading up to the Cell Games, Bulma had used every resource available to her in order to contribute to the Earth’s defense. She’d dedicated her time, her brain, her funds, and her technology to the cause. She had created a remote control to detonate the bombs within Gero’s cyborgs (an opportunity squandered by Krillin), she had developed an improved version of battle armor and bodysuits for each of the warriors (some of whom had ungratefully refused to wear it out of pride or a petty grudge), and she had worked with her father to fix Android 16. After that, she knew she had reached the extent to which she’d be able to participate in the fight against Cell.

 

It had frustrated her to no end that she’d once again been relegated to being a spectator on the sidelines while her friends, her son from the future, and her son’s father had to risk their lives fighting against that narcissistic freak of nature. But everything was out of her hands now.

 

Well, not exactly  _everything_.

 

While she had faith that Goku and the others would be able to rescue humanity from certain doom yet again, that was just Plan A.

 

If it all went to shit, Bulma had no intention of taking her death lying down. No, sir. Passive acceptance of her impending demise was decidedly  _not_ the modus operandi of Earth’s most ingenious woman -- _who also happens to be a total MILF, thankyouverymuch_. By Bulma’s reckoning, she may as well be the closest thing the Earth had to a real-life goddamned Batman. So, she’d decided that she needed to craft a Plan B.

 

_‘B’ for Bulma. Or Batman._

 

She’d sniggered to herself, amused by her own private joke, as she’d sat at her desk to begin drafting her plan, but had been shortly distracted by thoughts of her adult son.

 

In preparation for the Cell Games, Trunks had once again gone off to train in the Hyperbolic Time Chamber, and she couldn’t help but worry about the boy’s well-being. Was he eating enough? Was he giving his body sufficient rest? Was he sleeping well? She hoped his sleep wasn’t plagued by nightmares the same way his father’s was, but she sadly acknowledged that it was likely so. She’d remembered his tormented countenance as he’d shared how his timeline had turned out, and her heart had ached -- had never stopped aching, truth be told -- for her melancholy son.

 

She’d recalled his handsome visage, so serious for one so young, and how it was occasionally darkened by a fleeting yet unmistakably haunted expression -- one that was indicative of a life marked by violence and loss.

 

 _So much like his father_.

 

She’d thought of his expressive voice, often shaking with emotion and a barely contained desperation to save both her world and what little remained in his… his tense, reserved demeanor reflecting the burden of responsibility weighing on his young shoulders, knowing well that he wouldn’t be able to rest until his mission was carried out successfully… his piercing blue eyes having witnessed tragedies the magnitude of which she was incapable of imagining.

 

Her train of thought had shifted then, as she’d considered her son’s eyes. His intense gaze, though colored by her genes, was unmistakably Vegeta’s.

 

She was saddened that the narrative of the Saiyan royal bloodline continued to be a tragic one, with history repeating itself in its next generation. _His father and most of his people murdered by a powerful foe, a lost childhood, forced to survive in a hostile environment with few allies…_ The description easily matched both Vegeta and Trunks. Her fists had clenched in indignant fury at the thought. _Her son didn’t deserve any of this, dammit!_

 

But she’d also beheld, and been uplifted by, the hope that brightened her son’s eyes as well. Hope was all he had left to cling to, but it was contagious. Having rallied her own sense of hope, and further emboldened by the knowledge that she’d somehow found a way to survive against all odds in an apocalyptic environment in an alternate future, she’d vowed to do everything within her power to ensure her family’s survival in this timeline as well.

 

She began drafting her Plan B in earnest.

 

Bulma had poured over her world map, realizing she’d need to avoid all of the major metropolitan areas like West City. Should the worst possible outcome of the Cell Games become reality, not only would cities be Cell’s first targets on his worldwide destruction tour, but the cities’ inhabitants would pose a security threat as well. She wanted to be far removed from the inevitable riots and violence as humanity, overcome by fear and succumbing to baser instincts, would revert to survival mode. With that in mind, Bulma had drawn a red X over all of the urban areas on her map.

 

After a few seconds of deliberation, she had also crossed out Dende’s Lookout. If Cell decided to pay them a visit there, she wouldn’t be able to escape unseen -- she’d be a sitting duck even if she tried flying away in her fastest jet.

 

Goku’s home on Mount Paozu also wouldn’t do. If the Androids had known the location of Goku’s home, there was every reason to believe that Cell would know it as well. She’d cursed Gero, that revenge-obsessed motherfucker, for what felt like the millionth time.

 

As she’d wracked her brain trying to find remote and unremarkable locations that wouldn’t limit the possibility of escape -- _The desert? Nah. Caves? Eh... maybe._ \-- she’d suddenly remembered that when Goku had needed a safe place to recover from the debilitating heart virus, he’d been taken to Kame Island.

 

_Bingo._

 

Not only was it far from any densely populated area, but it also happened to be a location she was familiar with, and a place where she’d be welcomed by a trusted friend -- albeit an old, perverted one. She’d also be able to escape unseen beneath the waves via submarine to any of the other islands in the southern ocean’s archipelago, like Omori Island, the mostly-deserted isle where her older sister Tights lived.

 

_It’s perfect._

 

The evening before the Cell Games, she’d packed her capsule case with the most advanced weaponry, ammunition, and land/sea/air vehicles -- including a state-of-the-art submarine -- available to her, as well as a couple of capsule homes, various caches of medical supplies, some extra clothing, baby necessities, boy’s clothing ranging in size from six months to adulthood (she’d measured her time-traveling son), and enough water and nonperishable food to last her and her child for twenty years, taking into account the Saiyan appetite. Some may have considered it overkill, but she wouldn’t have had it any other way.

 

_The lovely and talented Bulma Briefs is many, many things, but unprepared ain’t one of ‘em._

 

She’d slept fitfully that night, wondering if Trunks, Vegeta, Goku, and the rest of her friends would be ready for the next day.

 

The morning of the Cell Games, after she’d finished readying her plane, she’d made one last-ditch attempt to convince her parents to flee with her to Kame Island, but they’d stubbornly refused to abandon their beloved critters. She had managed to keep her composure as she’d hugged her parents before departing, nodding numbly at her mother’s reassurances that Goku and his strong friends would surely save the day, but was unable to hold back her tears once she’d reached the appropriate altitude and enabled autopilot. The worry, fatigue, and fear had finally caught up to the stressed heiress.

 

Trunks, seeing his mother’s emotional disturbance, had released a sharp wail and stretched his little fingers towards her. She’d gathered him into her arms and offered him The Boob, which never failed to calm her perpetually hungry half-Saiyan. Bulma had held her son to her chest as he’d nursed, and with only her baby as a witness, allowed herself to silently finish weeping.

 

She’d watched as the last of her tear drops were absorbed by Trunks’ little blue hat.

 

The remainder of the flight to Kame Island had gone smoothly, and she’d been glad to have gotten the tears out of her system. She’d known she would need to keep a level head about her if things went south as a result of these Games. She had distracted her mind by alternating between attending to Trunks and studying a map for potential escape routes for her submarine.

 

It was late morning by the time she’d spotted the little pink house and landed on the beach.

 

As she’d approached the door with her young son sleeping peacefully against her chest, she could hear the old man muttering to himself over the sounds coming from his television. She hadn’t bothered with knocking, instead announcing her presence as she’d opened the door.

 

“Hello, everybody! Hi!”

 

She’d seen Roshi and Turtle turn their attention from the TV and the old man greeted her, “Oh, hello, Bulma!”

 

Her eyes had immediately been drawn to the images on the television screen as she’d made her way to the familiar red couch.

 

“Am I too late? I hope I haven’t missed anything.” Thinking that she ought to offer an innocent justification for her unannounced intrusion, she’d continued, “Little Trunks and I just wanted to come over to watch the tournament with you guys, ok?”

 

Roshi hadn’t responded, his attention having turned back to the fight shortly after he’d greeted her. Before she could press Turtle for the details, Trunks had awoken with a cry, as if to protest her less-than-truthful explanation for their presence in Kame House. She’d eventually managed to sooth him back to sleep, and Turtle had given her a brief recap of what she’d missed as she settled down on the couch to watch the battle between Goku and Cell. A tight knot of anxiety had remained lodged in her chest as she could do nothing but helplessly watch the Cell Games unfold from the relative safety of Kame House.

 

Her eyes had remained glued to the television until the broadcast had abruptly cut off while the Earth’s defenders had been battling against the maniacal and creepy Cell Juniors. Although she’d watched in horror while her friends and loved ones had tried defending themselves against the blue child-sized monsters, the period of blindness that had followed, during which she didn’t know much about how the Z warriors were faring beyond Roshi’s ability to sense ki, had been far worse.

 

There’d been a particularly confusing few minutes that had quickly become terrifying when Roshi mentioned that Cell and Goku had suddenly disappeared, only for Cell to reappear without any sign of Goku.

 

Before she could process the notion that Goku might actually be gone, Roshi had sucked in a sharp breath and darted a glance at Bulma. He’d hesitated before informing her that the ki belonging to someone else from the Z squad had just waned and blinked out of existence, but he’d told her he wasn’t confidently able to identify who it was.

 

He wouldn’t make eye contact with her, and she’d known then that he was lying. What horrible truth was the old turtle hermit protecting her from?

 

Naturally, the first loved one her heart had jumped to was Trunks. She’d immediately and forcefully slammed and locked an imaginary door in her mind in order to cut off her brain from pursuing that train of thought. Seeking a distraction, she had turned her attention instead to her baby, who, she’d been alarmed to see, was whimpering quietly in his sleep as tears ran down his chubby cheeks.

 

Then, as she’d attempted to comfort her young son, she had surprised herself. The next person to cross her mind had been Vegeta -- and she’d been further caught off guard by how violently her emotions had roiled in her chest and how quickly her throat had tightened at the thought of his death.

 

Where had _that_ come from?

 

She and Vegeta hadn’t been on good terms ever since he’d taken off to train in outer space in order to avoid any unwanted “distractions” on Earth.

 

By that, she’d known he had been referring to her.

 

Or, more specifically, her pussy.

 

She had to admit that she could understand why he felt like he’d started getting distracted. In those last couple of months, they’d been going at it like animals in heat, fucking nearly every day, sometimes even multiple times per day. And that one particularly memorable marathon sex weekend when he couldn’t keep his hands off her -- an inhuman 19 times in less than 48 hours. And they hadn’t all been quickies, either.

 

_How did I even survive that? No wonder I got knocked up._

 

For the newly single and thrill-seeking heiress, it had been the ultimate adrenaline boost to welcome a half-tamed alien man with a violent past and even more violent temper into her bed. She knew he could destroy the Earth with a flick of his fingers, and it was a huge turn on to have a man with that kind of power use those same fingers to bring her repeatedly to the peak of pleasure. He was the ultimate bad boy she’d longed for as a silly teenaged girl, and he even had the body, flexibility, and stamina of a superhuman sex god to sweeten the deal. When he’d made his sexual interest in her apparent, she would’ve been nuts to keep her legs closed at the opportunity. Vegeta had served splendidly as her rebound guy, and the mind-numbing orgasms she’d experienced with him had been the perfect remedy to help her get over the demise of her long-term relationship with Yamcha.

 

Or, at least, that’s how she’d rationalized it to herself. She knew even before they’d jumped into a physical relationship that she’d started caring and developing feelings for the stubborn man.

 

But one mustn’t speak of such things. Nope. It was definitely in her interest to keep the Prince of all Jerk-offs out of her heart. So when he’d left to train in space, she had done her best to let her anger eat away at any affection she may have held for him at one time or another.

 

Even after his return, after she’d already had the baby, whenever she’d crossed paths with the Super Sonuvabitch, any semblance of a normal conversation between adults would quickly devolve into bickering and hurling insults at each other, but this time without any of the delicious sexual tension that had been there before. And that was how it had been ever since.

 

It was probably for the best. It didn’t take a genius (like herself) to know he wasn’t relationship material, and he had bigger plans for his life than settling down with her to play house on “a backwater rock out in the space sticks.” He had constantly reminded her and her parents of his intent to destroy the androids, defeat Goku, and leave the planet to take his rightful place as the ruler of the universe, or some shit like that.

 

And she was totally cool with it. Who wanted him around, anyway? She and Trunks certainly didn’t need that stupid jerkface.

 

Ok, granted, it seemed like her son from the future had missed his father -- but he also came from a really horrible, devastated version of the future that she refused to believe would develop here. She was entirely capable of seeing to it that her baby’s every need would be taken care of, and he would grow up in a loving, happy, safe environment... so it would be different.

 

Her mind had been made up. She did not, did not, _did_   _not_ need -- nor want! -- Vegeta to stay.

 

As such, she had been confused by the powerful reaction elicited by the imagined loss of her son’s egotistical asshole of a father, but she wouldn’t have much time to ponder it -- Roshi had suddenly yelled out Gohan’s name, the ground had started shaking violently beneath her feet, powerful waves had begun pelting the tiny island in a ceaseless onslaught, and she’d felt her worst fears may have come true.

 

_We’re all going to die. There’s no escaping this if the planet is torn apart._

 

She’d clutched her young son tightly to her chest as he wailed, louder and louder with each passing minute, his Saiyan genes making him naturally more sensitive to massive disturbances in energy than the average human.

 

And then, after what felt like an eternity, it was over. The Earth stopped its tremors and the sea became calm.

 

Roshi had shakily turned to her and Turtle then, fighting back his own emotions as he spoke the words that she’d worried they might never hear.

 

“It’s over. We’ve won.”

 

What had followed was a period of elation. Cell was gone; humanity was safe. She’d flown back to Capsule Corp in record time, eager to rejoin her parents and see her brave son come home.

 

Along the way, she’d heard the report come over the radio about the hero who’d defeated Cell, that buffoon Hercule Satan. He’d taken advantage of the situation and hogged all of the credit for himself. She’d chuckled. It was just as well -- the Z fighters would be better off without being under the constant scrutiny of the public eye. Fame was no walk in the park, as her family knew.

 

Once she and Trunks had disembarked, her parents had run out to greet them. They had laughed and cried and danced and embraced. Trunks had giggled and squealed with amusement at their silly antics. They’d tuned in to the TV and watched the worldwide celebrations as humanity enjoyed its victory. She’d caught snippets of the televised parade for Hercule in Orange Star City, and overheard the announcement that all of the people who Cell had killed were now waking up. While the public had proclaimed that it was a miracle and attributed it to Hercule defeating Cell, she and her parents had known better; Shenron was awake.

 

It had been at this point that her mother, ever the gracious hostess, had decided to whip up a celebratory feast for Trunks and Vegeta, anticipating that “our strapping young heroes must have worked up quite an appetite by now!”

 

Trunks had been the first to arrive. As soon as he’d poked his head through the sliding balcony door and announced his presence, six hands had reached towards him to pull him into a group hug. He had blushed, but seemed to enjoy the affection, and he’d returned the embrace.

 

Bulma’s keen eyes had noticed that he surprisingly looked no worse for wear, save for that alarmingly large hole in the middle of his armor’s chest plate. She had been itching to ask him about everything that had transpired after the live feed had cut out, but she’d decided to wait until he’d had some time to decompress.

 

The meal was ready by the time he had gotten out of the shower, and she’d thanked the stars for her mother’s intuition. As soon as Trunks had caught a whiff of his grandmother’s cooking, he had promptly sat down and dug in like she’d never seen him do before. It had almost been Goku-like.

 

A couple of hours later, it was dusk and there had been no sign of Vegeta. Having wondered aloud about the Saiyan’s absence as she’d trimmed her son’s long hair, she’d listened as he had suggested that his father likely just wanted some solitude to reflect on the battle and its outcome, but that he was sure he would return to Capsule Corp when he was ready.

 

She’d marveled at how confident he was in his assessment. Just a few weeks ago, she and Vegeta hadn’t even known his identity. Now, he was speaking about Vegeta with an insight that very few people in the entire universe could have. It was highly probable that, out of anyone alive, Trunks was the one who now knew Vegeta best. She’d been made aware of the fact that they had spent an entire year with only each other for company in the Hyperbolic Time Chamber, and that must’ve been the reason why. Though she likely would never know what exactly had transpired between father and son in there, she was grateful that it had.

 

Night had fallen, and still no Vegeta.

 

At some point, someone had turned off the TV, and she’d been sitting on the couch in the middle of her living room, simply enjoying the sounds of life. Through the open balcony doors, a gentle breeze had carried the sounds of the city with it -- cars carrying passengers to wherever their destinations may be, and revelers out on the streets, enjoying the miracle of their being alive.

 

From the dining room, she could hear the soothing murmurs of her parents’ conversation and the clinking of their dessert spoons as they’d shared a sweet treat, only interrupted here and there by her mother’s girlish giggle or her father’s chuckle.

 

To her right, within reach, her young son had been cooing and gurgling and babbling, and his happy baby sounds had intermingled every so often with her adult son’s quiet puffs of amusement. Both of her sons had been sharing the couch with her. The elder one was sprawled across it, and he’d been resting his head on her lap as he’d languidly played with the young version of himself who’d been seated on his stomach. Her adult son had been gently tugging on the baby’s tiny feet or tickling his belly, and letting the youngster occasionally yank on his fingers in return. They had gone on like this for almost an hour, exchanging these tiny “attacks” back and forth, back and forth. Each time the younger Trunks had successfully managed to capture one of the elder’s fingers, he would release the digit to clap in delight, enjoying his victory. They were Saiyans, after all.

 

It had been a beautiful moment, one of the happiest of her life. Even so, it had been interrupted by brief pangs of melancholy as she’d caught herself wishing for it to never end, but knowing that it would have to.

 

Unbeknownst to Bulma at the time, as enthralled as she had been with watching her two princes playing with each other, her amazing mother had discreetly snapped a few pictures and a video of the moment. They would later become some of Bulma’s most beloved family photos.

 

When her baby had begun yawning and rubbing his eyes, she’d known that the playtime had come to its inevitable end.

 

However, sensing that Bulma was reluctant to be separated, even for one precious second, from the son she knew she would have to say goodbye to in the morning, Bulma’s parents had offered to put her little one to bed. She had gratefully accepted, kissing her little tyke on his forehead before her father had whisked him off to his room.

 

It had been in the peace and privacy of that moment, as she’d been combing her fingers through her son’s thick, freshly-cut hair and gently massaging his scalp, when Trunks had quietly informed her of his death and resurrection.

 

The news had shocked her into stillness. His smooth strands of hair slipped slowly from her frozen fingers, and she could do little else but stare wide-eyed at her son in horrified silence.

 

Her eyebrows furrowed as she was overcome with a confusing emotion, like a swelling balloon of fury and grief in her chest that was simultaneously being deflated by the sight of her perfectly healthy, perfectly _alive_ son looking up at her with concern and love in his eyes. _So much love._

 

_My gentle, selfless, sensitive son… oh, god! My beautiful boy... killed by that sick monstrosity…!_

 

When her vision began to swim and tears threatened to fall, he had sat up and kneeled before her, taking her small hands in his larger ones and gripping them reassuringly, comfortingly.

 

“It’s ok, Mom, I’m ok. I’m alive, and I’m ok. I promise. I don’t even remember it, it happened so fast. I’m ok.”

 

When she had finally found the willpower to move, she’d thrown her thin arms around her son’s neck and fiercely whispered how much she loved him and was so proud of him-- so, so unbelievably proud of her brave boy.

 

Upon hearing the intensity of her proclamation, a breath had shuddered out of his chest and he’d wrapped and tightened his arms around her ribcage. He’d bowed his head and whispered back to her in a voice thick with emotion, “Thank you, Momma.”

 

She’d pressed a gentle kiss to his temple. She knew she wasn’t the one he was speaking to.

 

When they had released each other from the embrace, he’d kept his eyes averted and shifted uncomfortably in his kneeling position on the carpet.

 

She waited. She’d had no idea where all this patience was coming from, but dammit, she would wait until her son was good and ready to share whatever it was that he obviously felt he needed to say.

 

Eventually, he’d cleared his throat and spoke softly, “There’s one other thing I need to tell you, about the battle with Cell.”

 

He finally raised his blue eyes to her matching set.

 

“About Goku.”

 

~~~

 

She pulls herself out of her reminiscence there, ending it. But the tears won’t stop.

 

_Goku… It’s not fair..._

 

A soft whooshing sound catches her attention, and she glances to the now open bedroom door. A dark, familiar silhouette is briefly outlined by the bright lights in the hallway before he steps into the room and presses the panel next to the door so it slides shut.

 

He takes only a few more steps into the room, and remains there. She can feel his eyes on her.

 

She tries to wipe away her tears, to no avail.

 

_Damn these salty little assholes._

 

“Kakarot.”

 

She hears Goku’s birth name uttered by the intruder, and it almost sounds like he’s accusing her of something. She won’t even try to deny it. She’s allowed to grieve, dammit. She sighs.

 

“Yes. He was my oldest friend, Vegeta. The fact that it was his choice to remain in the afterlife doesn’t make his death any less painful for those who love him.”

 

He takes one more step forward, into the moonlight, and she can clearly see his face as he stares at her. He looks just as devastatingly handsome as ever, but something is off. It takes her a moment before she pinpoints the culprit.

 

It’s his posture.

 

His normally perfect posture and proud stance have been replaced with a slouch that looks so  _wrong_ on his compact frame. His neck is bowed forward slightly, and his shoulders are slumped.

 

Despite today’s victory, he appears defeated.

 

This revelation distracts her from her grief, and she is able to dry her eyes. She sits up in bed, clutching the sheet over her chest as she’s uncharacteristically self-conscious about the unattractive nursing bra she’s wearing. But she thinks better of it, dropping the sheet so it flutters to her waist.

 

_Show no weakness. He’s damn lucky to get a look at me no matter what I’m wearing._

 

And besides, it’s clear this isn’t one of _those_ night time visits. The last time had been over a year ago, before she’d found out she was pregnant, and she and Vegeta aren’t anywhere near the right terms for something like _that_ to take place.

 

_Yet._

 

She suddenly notices that he’s clean and is wearing his customary training shorts instead of the blue combat suit, so it’s apparent that he has not arrived at Capsule Corp just now. She wonders how long he’s been in the compound, and why he hadn’t made his presence known to her until this moment.

 

Unsure of how to act with this silent, slouchy Vegeta, she fills the silence with words to see if she can get a reaction from him.

 

“I heard about it from our son... who apparently was Cell’s last victim.”

 

Something suspiciously close to guilt or regret distorts his facial features for a second before he schools himself back to his guarded, neutral expression. He nods once in affirmative.

 

He continues to stand there, uncomfortably, and Bulma realizes he isn’t sure what his next move should be. He’s the one who has come into her room, but he hasn’t said anything other than ‘Kakarot.’ She’s never seen him be this unsure before. He’s not one to hesitate unless something important is seriously bugging him.

 

_What’s going on in that head of yours, Vegeta?_

 

She wants to speak with him, but isn’t sure what to say. This isn’t normal for them. Both of their inner flames that typically guide their passionate and strong personalities are dimmed, barely even flickers. There’s no spark, no conflict. Just two tired individuals with some seriously fucked up baggage between them, at the end of a very long day.

 

_At the end of a very long three years, is more like it._

 

“Vegeta…” She pauses, trying to gather her thoughts. Her usually quick mind feels sluggish, her emotions having drained her.

 

She takes a deep breath and tries again.

 

“Vegeta, I--”

 

“Bulma.”

 

She falls silent at his interruption. She basks briefly in the rare sound of her name being spoken in his distinct timbre. He continues.

 

“The boy departs for his timeline tomorrow.”

 

It was phrased as a statement, but she knew it was a question.

 

“Yes. After the memorial service. He wants to pay his respects before he leaves.”

 

He tilts his head down slightly, in acknowledgment, but it deepens the shadows on his face, and it becomes impossible for her to read his expression in the darkened room.

 

After another prolonged moment of silence passes between them, it seems that he comes to some sort of decision -- _about what, I’ve got no freakin’ idea_ \-- given that he turns to leave her bedroom. One last question bubbles out of her as his fingers brush against the door’s panel. She knows better than to ask if he’d attend Goku’s memorial service, but for Trunks, maybe...

 

“Will you be here tomorrow? To send him off? To say goodbye... You know it’d mean the world to him.”

 

_To me._

 

He remains still, with his back towards her, but this time he doesn’t make her wait long for an answer.

 

“I will stay.”

 

“Oh, well, that’s good. Yeah. He’ll be happy about that. And then -- after tomorrow, of course, it’s a pretty busy day -- my dad and I can get to work on your ship, since we haven’t had the time to touch it since you got back, but I know for a fact that some components... need... to be...”

 

She trails off mid-sentence. As she spoke, Vegeta had calmly turned his face to the side, towards her, and a shaft of moonlight was now illuminating his chiseled jaw, chin, and mouth. She stares at his profile as his lips part and he repeats his words, more slowly and more quietly this time.

 

“I will stay.”

 

She draws a sharp intake of breath, and her heart begins hammering in her chest.

 

“Oh. I see. Ok then.”

 

With that, he gives her a brief nod, turns and leaves her alone in her bedroom, sitting in frozen shock on top of her bed. She flops back onto her pillows and stares at the ceiling as a small part of the enormous pressure weighing on her chest is lifted. Those three words keep echoing in her mind, and she is able to summon a small smile as she finally drifts off to her first peaceful sleep in weeks.

 

She dreams of a little lavender-haired boy who knows nothing of pain or loss or terror. He plays happily in the sun, feeling safe and protected and loved. When it’s time to go home, his carefree eyes, as blue as the sky, seek out and find a familiar pair of prideful eyes, as black as outer space.

 

_He will stay._

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, readers. Welp. I've finally done it. After 17 years of consuming fan fiction written by the amazingly talented and creative folks who make the Vegebul and DBZ fandom the wonderful community that it is, I've finally mustered up the courage to contribute something of my own to it. So yes, this is my very first fan fiction. This is actually my very first story, ever. Constructive criticism is appreciated, as I'd love to improve as a writer. Were certain passages too convoluted? Was anything clunky or confusing? Hated it? Loved it? Let me know, and thank you so much for reading. :)


End file.
